


The Wanderer

by dorkpatroller



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Commission fic, M/M, Rapunzel AU, bless this au i loved it so much, fairy tale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkpatroller/pseuds/dorkpatroller
Summary: Owain is a wandering hero, tasked with rescuing a young man from a wicked witch. That he finds love along the way is simply a whim of fate.





	1. Kidnapped - A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iavenjqasdf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iavenjqasdf/gifts).



> A commission for iavenjqasdf. Thank you so much for letting me write this because I loved it so so much.

Maribelle wrenches her hands together. They feel clammy, even with her delicate lace gloves to protect them. She heard word of a wandering hero approaching their village. She expected a man atop a noble steed, with sword drawn and armor shimmering in the daylight. What she saw, from a small distance, was a man who hardly looked the part of a hero.

A very dignified part of her wanted to ignore him. She could find a better hero, a man more suited towards the task. But… each day that passes is another day her son is not safe and in her arms. Her dignity took a step aside and she approached this ‘wandering hero.’

His armor was leather, and while that would do in combat it did nothing to shine. His eyes do shine, however, as she approaches. She tries to think of something to say that doesn’t make her sound a beggar or desperate. The people of this town already think she’s crazy. They say her son died years before, that she was once such a respectable woman but that now… now she is wasting a sizable dowry on the retrieval of a dead child. A man, if he’s alive. A man, she knows, because her son is not dead.

This so-called hero looks hardly more than a child himself. Could he even be much older than her son? She bites her lip and then scolds herself. She has to speak up. The hero cants his head to the side and waits, but obviously uncertainly. She swallows back the last touch of pride she has.

“Are you ‘Owain Dark’?” She asks. She looks him over. He looks strong and capable, that is, but he just hardly seems experienced enough to be such a well-known hero. Even so, the sword at his hip and the leathery armor across his chest implies well enough that he is a man who knows battle. Boy. A man boy. _Ugh!_ She thinks, _He’s practically a child himself. Gods, he can’t even be twenty years old, yet._

Despite her inner turmoil, Owain Dark does not hesitate to nod his head. “Yes! I am the Great Owain Dark, the Wanderlust Hero, the…”

“My son is missing.” Maribelle interrupts. She knows it isn’t in good manners to do so, but… well, she wonders if he might have gone on forever had she not. She doesn’t have forever. She folds her hands neatly in front of her waist and decides to clarify. “Forgive me. My name is Maribelle. My son, Brady, was kidnapped from me. He was stolen away by a witch. I need your help to bring him home. I’ll pay you for the trouble.”

Owain’s smile falls into a round frown. “When was he kidnapped?” He asks. Maribelle can tell what he’s thinking. Was it recently enough that he can find him quickly? The answer is no.

Maribelle looks down at her hands. "He was taken from me in the night when he was only twelve years old. I've sent countless people to find him and looked tirelessly myself. I can't leave this town. If he finds his way home, I want to be here. Today… Today is the eve of his eighteenth birthday.”

She watches Owain process her words. He does a poor job of hiding his emotions. It is clear on his face that he wonders if, after six years, there is any chance her son is alive. It’s obvious that he thinks more could have been done to find him, but he is _wrong_. Maribelle did everything in her power and beyond.

Instead of turning her down, he chooses his words carefully. “Have you any idea where to begin my search?”

Maribelle’s eyes brighten. She nods her head enthusiastically. “Yes,” She begins. “Yes, a man I once asked to find my son told me he is kept in the care of a witch in a far off wood to the north. He said it was impossible to fight her, and so he abandoned the task. He never told me exactly where it was, but… How many witches can there be to the north?”

Many. And they can all rain death down upon inexperienced young heroes, but what else can Maribelle do? She is honest: if he brings her back her son, she will reward him handsomely. “Please, Brady is a gentle boy. He must be scared, and so lonely.” To imagine him locked away and in chains brings tears to her eyes. She dabs at them with her gloved fingertips.

Owain considers her, and then he smiles a bright and confident smile. “I’ll bring him back.” He promises. Maribelle almost thinks she can believe him, if not for the fact that she’s heard the same several times before. She nods her head and smiles at him nonetheless.

“Thank you,” She says. She wonders if he’s the one who will bring Brady back to her. She hasn’t seen him in so long. Did he grow into a handsome young man? She can only pray he’s safe.

"Answer me one question?" Owain asks. Maribelle would answer anything she could if it meant his success. She nods her head. Anything. “Do you know why a witch stole away _your_ son?”

Maribelle shakes her head. “He was born with the gift of healtouch,” She whispers. “To cure wounds is a valuable gift.” Witches, however, can use magic on their own. They don’t need to steal it from children.

She has never done a thing to anger any witches, that she knows. She has never been cursed, never led a life where she made her living by impoverishing others. She looks at the ground and tries to remember the night. “I don’t know the witch’s face or name. She came swiftly and silently. Brady woke and called out for me, and by the time I arrived in his room she swept him away with the toss of her cloak and a flash of fire to stop my pursuit.” Maribelle sighs. She can still hear her son calling out for her. She would give anything to hold him again. “Bring him home.”

 


	2. The Magic Tower

Brady was convinced, in that moment, that he was going to die. He had little in the way to defend himself with, but in the face of danger instinct often can turn even the most unexpected tool into a weapon of defense.

"HYAH!" He shouts. He has no interest in death. It sounds dreadful and boring and even more than that it sounds terrifying. Instead, he swings his violin hard by its neck and slams the body of it into the head of the intruder. Said intruder yelps and collapses to the floor. He clutches his head. Brady realizes this is his chance.

He pulls the sword swiftly from the sheath hanging on the man’s hip. He doesn’t admit he’s never held one of these before. In fact, he doesn’t say anything to let on that he’s inexperienced with all sorts of weapons, or that he’s too petrified with fear to actually attempt to swing it. He just does his best to look menacing as he stands over the intruder. “Wh,” He tries not to stutter. “Who are ya? How did you get in here?”

How _did_ he get in here? The tower that Brady has called home for the past six years isn’t exactly dragon-guarded, but it’s essentially impregnable. The only entrance is through a gorgeous stone window, but the tower is a hundred feet off the ground. The only one who can come or go is the witch. Reasonably, Brady wasn’t expecting house guests.

The man under him reaches out like he might try and take the sword back. Brady gasps and swings it haphazardly. “Be cautious!” The man cries. “Missletainn is meant only for my own, trained sword hand!”

“I’ll cut yer damn hand off!" Brady threatens. It's not true. He probably couldn't, even if he knew how to swing a sword proper, and he has about as much interest in hurting someone as a cow has in a slaughter. He swallows. There's a heavy knot in his throat and he isn't convinced he'll ever get it cleared away. "A-Answer the questions!"

“My name is Owain!” He withdraws his hand and pushes it through his hair. Fine and blonde, he’s fair-skinned and bright-eyed. “Sent here by your mother, Lady Maribelle, that I might rescue you from your prison.”

Brady stares at him. His mother sent him? His mother sent _him_? He hardly seems the type she would even speak to, let alone hire. Still… he called her by name, and it sends a pang of homesickness through Brady. He indulges in a moment to think of his mother and her gentle touch and elegant guidance. He lowers the sword to hang at his side, but he keeps a firm grip on the hilt, just in case. "Okay," he says wearily. He suddenly feels exhausted. "So how'd ya get up here?”

The witch uses a spell. When she whispers those words an iridescent, golden stair appears before her, and she climbs up it effortlessly. Brady never learned the words to her spell. She would never teach him. No doubt because she expected he would use that knowledge to escape. She wouldn’t be wrong. He glances out the window. From here, from this angle, he can’t tell how it happened. Did Owain climb the stairs? Did he somehow _climb_?

Owain’s answer makes perfect sense, in some ways. In others it only confuses Brady further. “I saw the witch cast her spell and I copied it.” He says it like it’s so obvious. Like just anyone can cast spells. They can’t. Spells are reserved for witches and sorcerers and this man looks like neither.

Brady swallows, but the knot perseveres. Maybe this is why his mother sent this man? She must have known he could work magic. It makes sense. Sort of. Not really. He bites his lip. “You—You’re sayin’ we can just walk down some stairs and be on our merry way?”

“Well, er, yes," Owain says. Brady hesitates. His heart is full of butterflies and anxiety, and he’s not sure if he’s excited or nauseous. He doesn’t have time for Owain to be uncertain.

“What’s your problem?” He asks, finally.

Owain’s cheeks flush dark and he shakes his head. His voice was bold earlier, when he announced his presence, but it grows meek in that moment. “Nothing!” He squeaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Nothing. Just that I thought this might be a touch more… epic battle-y.”

Brady stares at him with disbelief again. This time it’s followed up by the roll of his eyes. He drops Owain’s sword on the ground and walks away from him. He approaches the window. Sure enough, the sparkling stairs are there, and Miriel is nowhere to be seen. He chews the inside of his cheek. He could leave. Just like that. He could go back home, see his mother again. Miriel would get over it. Right?

“Ma _really_ sent you?” He asks. He turns to look over his shoulder again, and Owain is climbing to his feet. He bends at the waist and picks up his sword effortlessly. Brady blushes. He thought it was kind of heavy. He supposes the muscles on Owain’s arms aren’t just for show. He _is_ supposed to be a hero. “Yer not really her type.”

“Would I be here had she not?” Owain asks. He looks around the room. “I was expecting a dungeon.”

Brady looks around too. It’s just his room. There’s not a lot to it. Plenty of books. His sheet music sitting on the table. His bed, pushed against the wall, and a chest with blankets. There’s a table to one corner, and a basket of food. He walks back into the room and picks up a satchel. He tucks an extra set of clothes in it, a few apples, a crust of bread… and then he makes a grab for the violin and bow. He examines it. He’s lucky he didn’t bust it on Owain’s head. And, he supposes, he’s lucky he didn’t bust Owain either. He has no idea where he’s going, after all.

"We ought-ta get out of here before she gets back," Brady finally says. The knot in his throat clears up. He’s confident in this decision, he thinks. Owain’s internal crisis about not slaying a dragon or something can wait. So what if he doesn’t live in a dungeon? So what if there wasn’t an epic battle? Brady’s life isn’t a fairytale. He’s not here just to amuse his ‘hero’.

Owain's eyes flash between Brady's and the window. The night will fall soon enough. They need to get a good head start, and they need to work to cover their trail. "You're right.”


	3. Together

Owain is nice enough. Brady is grateful for his company. He has no idea where to even begin looking for home, after all, and even if he did he’s completely untrained to defend himself. Brigands and ruffians roam the hills and woods between towns. They come out at sundown, skittering like roaches.

That’s sort of what gets them into the situation they’re in now. 

 

Brady has no idea  _ why _ bandits might think they have anything of value. Brady is dressed in common clothes and Owain is… well, nothing much to look at beyond a swordsman. Well, he's a handsome swordsman. Brady can give him that. But neither of them are wealthy looking, and they aren’t carrying much by way of cargo. Brady just has his satchel and Owain has a bag with some clothes and camping supplies. There’s nothing to fuss about.

This isn’t even the first time it’s happened! This is just the first time Owain hasn’t bested them before he got hurt. Brady feels like a fool for not noticing it sooner. 

 

There’s a soft thudding of raindrops outside against the tent. Thankfully it’s sturdy quality, thick material, and nothing is leaking through. After they fought those bandits Owain guided Brady to run away. Far away. They ran until the sky began to get dark and until they were winded, and then Owain pitched a tent in the cover of woods. Brady wanted to help, but he had a cramp in his side from all the sprinting, and by the time he managed to get off the ground Owain was finished. Owain said he just wanted to put distance between them and those bandits, so that they wouldn’t come looking for them with friends later.

So Owain pitched the tent himself while Brady tried not to die of a cramp in his side. Eventually he got up and fumbled with trying to find dry enough wood to build a fire. He found none. It was right around then, when he was turning around in defeat, that he noticed Owain had a bright red stain on his back. He was wounded the whole time!

So he sits on the floor of the tent, feeling quite stupid, atop Owain’s bedroll. He trails his fingertips along the bare skin of his back. They wander over all of it, his fingers circling gently into the skin surrounding the wound. Over scars and the jagged shape of his strong shoulder blades.

 

“Didn’t Ma tell ya about my powers..?” He eventually asks. As he moves his hand over Owain’s skin, his injury slowly starts to mend itself back together.. Owain’s whole back is stiff, despite the way Brady is gentle. He’s been told that the magic he uses feels like ice water being poured over a wound, and then a soothing warm hand smoothing over it. Owain acts like he can’t stand it. Maybe he’s not getting the soothing part yet.

“She mentioned, yes,” Owain says. He looks over his shoulder at Brady. “I wouldn’t take advantage of another man’s gift. Besides! I would have healed on my own, eventually.”

“Not before ya got a huge infection," Brady mutters. He sighs. They've spent a few nights and days together. Owain _is_ nice, but a lot to take in. He's the most animated, exhausting person that Brady has ever met, and… well, it's hard to form a solid opinion on if he's insane or not. There are other parts of him easier to decide on. He’s generous and he’s brave. He’s kind to people without really considering if they have his best interest at heart. 

Brady has always had a touch of trouble seeing the good in people without also scrutinizing the bad in them too. Owain shrugs under his hand. “A wicked witch stole you from your mother over that magic. I didn’t think it was my place to…”

Brady’s hand stops moving, briefly. He huffs. A breath later he resumes his spell. “Miriel ain’t wicked. Sure, she stole me and all, but… she had her reasons. That don’t make it  _ right _ but she’s not a bad lady. She treated me nice. Gave me anything I asked for, as long as I stayed. I mean, I didn’t really have an  _ option _ … She didn’t teach me how to open the stairs.”

“It was just a simple spell.” Owain murmurs. “What were her ‘reasons’, if not to harness your healtouch?” The wound on his back is nearly faded. He shivers. Brady smirks.

“Ma didn’t raise me to be a gossip.” He doesn’t want to talk about it. Miriel didn’t deserve to lose her son. She made a dumb choice, but she isn’t cruel. Brady is sure of it. Not that he would go back. He doesn’t regret leaving. He wants to go home to his  _ real _ mother. 

 

“...‘Sides, let’s talk about you. How come you can use spells?” Brady asks. They’re higher level spells, if Brady knows anything about it. Miriel never starved him from the literature on magic. She tried to teach him some, even, but he was never that good. Eventually, the wound fades from Owain's back entirely. Brady smooths his hand over the skin one last time before he drops it back into his lap. Owain's back is… broad. Strong. He's very built. It’s very handsome. All of him is handsome. Brady blushes and looks at his hands. This isn’t the time for that. Owain shifts so he can face him, instead of facing away. His eyes are dazzling, even in the dark tent. 

“Noble blood.” Owain answers. His lips curl up into a lopsided smile. A second later he holds out his arm to demonstrate his birthmark. Brady hasn’t seen anything quite like it before, it almost doesn’t seem real. He traces its shape with his finger. When Owain speaks up again, Brady tilts his eyes up to meet his.

 

“My mother was a princess. Anyone with noble blood is naturally attuned to magic. Owain Dark, spell master!” Owain laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Not really. I’m awful with most spells, although the dark arts are my very favorites. I was lucky to get that one right on the first try.”

He keeps talking about spells for a second or two, about how dark magic is the hardest to practice and how in the hands of a good man it can be used for wondrous things, but Brady’s brain is playing catch-up. “Prince?!” He squeaks. “A  _ prince _ saved me from a tower? Good grief, no wonder we’re getting chased by bandits. They probably think you’re valuable!”

Owain pouts. He pouts like a child and it’s got the blush crawling back up Brady’s cheeks, because  _ damn it _ he’s cute. “I like to think they raise their swords simply to challenge the greatest hero the land has ever known,” Owain says.

No. Brady is sure they raise their swords to try and gain ransom off of Owain’s successful capture. He’s a prince. Someone will eventually buy back his safety. 

 

No doubt if they knew about Brady’s gift, they’d be after him too. He shifts his attention from Owain’s face and off into nothingness. He just wants to see his mother again. What if they end up captured before they even get there? He never really thought about the consequences of roaming around before. A prince! They’re like a walking target.

His attention refocuses on Owain when he feels his hand on his shoulder. It’s strong and heavy and warm. Brady’s face gets warmer with the contact. He peers up and flinches when he sees Owain has leaned closer to him. He’s got a wide smile on his face, but he looks very serious. His tone is gentle instead of boisterous. He says “Don’t worry, Sir Brady of the Moistened Eyes. I will guide you home safely.”

Brady reaches up and touches his cheeks.  _ Dammit. _ He’s crying. He looks away and scrubs his face with his sleeve. “Mm just tired.” He mutters. Owain agrees with him, and they go to sleep.


	4. The Witch's Wrath

They're halfway home when they happily stumble upon a quaint little town. There are bushes of flowers all around and people are bursting with smiles. The market is full of fresh foods and bread and everyone is cheerful. It's a nice change of pace from the dreary woods. Not only that, but Brady soon realizes that Owain intends to pay for them to sleep at an inn.

A bed! Brady is too thankful to even say it’s unnecessary. He isn’t even bothered that there’s only one bed. If… If he was to be honest with the apologetic inn-keep, he would probably admit that he’s spent the last few nights curled up in Owain’s bedroll anyway. To chase away the cold, they say, but it’s not really that. There’s something else in the way Owain wraps his arm around Brady’s waist while they sleep. There’s something affectionate. Something more. 

Or at least, Brady hopes. There’s certainly more going on in Brady’s mind. Maybe he’s just attention starved, he tells himself, but he thinks that Owain touches his arm something more than just gently. He thinks he bumps their hands together when they walk on purpose. Brady has grown quite fond of him. He almost doesn’t want this journey to end. Owain’s excitement brings a smile to Brady’s face. Where he used to wonder if he was insane, Brady now wonders if the rest of the world is instead.

“Obviously, I took pity on the ogre," Owain says. He's telling a story about how he slew an ogre once. Or, perhaps, he didn’t. Ogres aren't real. Brady smiles and hums in agreement, anyway. He loves to hear the stories, no matter how tall the tale.

Owain is undressing for the evening. His cloak, his sword, his bags are all set aside. He's working on the belt to remove some of the leather armor. Brady is watching. He’s trying to convince himself to look away before Owain strips down out of his shirt. He doesn’t want to get caught staring at his chest, again.

Brady is _pretty_ sure the whole world would be a better place if they just spent five minutes getting to know Owain. He sees the good in everything. Even made up ogre battles. It’s why he was so quick to accept that Brady doesn’t blame Miriel as much as he “should.” He probably sees the good in her, too.

Or, at least, he sees her. There’s a flash of light in the room. Owain’s fingers stop fumbling with his buckles and Brady jolts from his spot sitting at the foot of the bed. When the light fades the witch is standing in their room. She has short, precise hair and round glasses. Her eyes are round with worry when she looks over Brady.

“Brady!” She exclaims. He can hardly believe she’s here. Right in front of him, as if it was effortless. As if he hadn’t been on the road for so long, to get home. “You look uninjured. Thank goodness. I was exceedingly worried. Come along, let us go.”

“Wh,” Owain sputters. “Stay back!” He shouts. “Sir Brady isn’t going anywhere with you. He is your prisoner no longer, witch!”

Brady’s heart sinks. It’s not that Owain is wrong, it’s that he doesn’t think Miriel deserves that. Or maybe it’s that he’s lived with her for so long that he doesn’t know _what_ she deserves? He opens his mouth but he doesn’t get to say anything. Miriel glances at Owain and then looks away dismissively. "You're hardly more than an adolescent yourself," she says. “Leave us be.”

Owain reaches out for his sword. He grips it by the hilt. Brady watches anxiously. He can’t let Owain _hurt_ her. Right? Miriel is the most rational woman he’s ever met. She would listen to reason. They should just talk this out.

“I don’t want to go back,” Brady says. Miriel’s attention turns to him. She looks at him with her lips in a flat line. She looks at him like she’s disappointed. She already lost one child. How will she cope with losing another?

“You don’t know what you want,” She says softly. “You’re safe, with me.” She folds her arms across her chest. Owain approaches her with his sword drawn. Brady doesn’t know if he’s really intending to attack. He doesn’t have it raised, he seems to be in a defensive position, but… For some reason, he panics. He pushes  Miriel out of ‘harm's way'. Her sudden movement startles Owain, and he raises his sword like he might counter attack. Instead, it makes contact with Brady's arm.

Brady hisses in pain. It’s not too bad. He’s seen his fair share of injuries, and this one is minor. There’s more blood than cut. It looks much worse than it is. Owain’s mouth falls _immediately_ into an apology. Mistletainn clatters to the floor and he wraps his hand around Brady’s arm to survey the damage. 

“I’m sorry,” Owain blurts. Brady looks at the throbbing wound, and back at Owain. This whole thing was just a stupid accident. How could he ever think Owain would attack Miriel with no reason? He needs to apologize, instead.

Brady isn’t banking on Miriel attacking Owain when she does. Brady’s arm is dripping blood, and Miriel sees red. A blast of wind magic pushes Owain back a few paces from Brady. Brady gasps so hard that he chokes a little. “Hey! Let him be!” He shouts.

“You dare lay your filthy sword down on _my_ son?” Miriel raises her voice. Owain flaps his lips like a fish.

“It was an accident!” Brady shouts.

“He’s not _your son_ !” Owain counters, finally. Brady can’t really imagine a _worse_ thing for Owain to say in that moment.

Miriel’s eyes flash with green magic. She lifts her hand and wind spirals out of her fingertips in a gust so strong that Brady topples backwards. He’s startled to land on his bottom, and he scrambles but he can’t seem to stand up. He hears the window shatter, shards of glass blown away by the spell. There’s a shout, Owain’s shout. Brady squeezes his eyes shut.

Miriel’s magic pushes Owain back until he falls backward out of the window. Brady can’t see it, but he hears it. The moment Owain falls, Miriel’s spell fades. The air in the room settles. Brady could hear the initial shout leave Owain's lips, but he can't hear anything now. Only just a thud and the echo of wind in his ears.

His eyes snap open. He runs to the window and leans out. There’s a bed of greenery under the window where Owain fell, but he is obviously unconscious. A fall from a window could kill a man if he's unlucky. Brady shouts his name at him. Owain doesn't stir.

Frantically, he backs away from the window and makes for the door. Maybe he can still save him.  Before he even gets to the door, however, Miriel grasps his wrist. Brady looks down at her hand. Her grip is bruising. She’s never hurt him before, but he finds himself afraid of her. Afraid of her like he was the day she stole him away. “I’ve got to go heal him,” He whispers.

Miriel shakes her head no. “How dare you? I loved you as my own, and this is how you repay me? You run away with a man-child masquerading as a hero?” She frowns. Brady pulls desperately at his wrist in his effort to get away. He’s never really wished more that he was physically strong than he does in that moment. “If you want to be independent of me so desperately, so you shall. But you will not be _stolen_ from me by that boy.”

For a moment, Brady feels nauseous. The room is spinning around him. He has to force his eyes shut, and when he can finally blink them open again they’re no longer standing in the little inn. The sunlight is harsh and bright around them. He shields his eyes. “Wha…” He spins in a slow circle. “Miriel… where are we?” He asks, “Where’s Owain?!”

“You want to be free of me so badly? Be free.” Miriel disappears. Brady shouts.

“Hey!” He calls out to the air. She’s gone. Where is he? Where is Owain? He turns in a slow circle again. “Miriel!”

  
Which way… is home? Which way is _anywhere_? He’s abandoned in the middle of an empty, vast valley. No food, no water, no inkling of where to find salvation… and no Owain Dark to guide him with lighthearted games and warm hands.


	5. The Wandering Man

Brady has no idea where Owain is. He doesn't even know which way is up at this point. It feels like he's been walking for years and years, but really it's only been a few days. He found a patch of wild strawberries the first night he was lost, and that got him through, but he's still hungry and tired. He can hardly sleep. All he can think about is Owain, lying in the shrubs beneath the inn's window. Did anyone find him? Could they save him?

Owain is alive. He must be. A man as willful and strong as him can’t just be beaten by a gust of wind, right? Brady knows that Owain is safe. It’s like he can feel his heartbeat in his chest, right alongside his own. It’s loud, like a drum beat. It’s filling his ears, louder and louder… until Brady realizes that he isn’t hearing Owain’s heartbeat at all. He’s hearing wingbeats.

“What,” He breathes out, but then he stumbles back. Dust flies up all around him in gusts. It’s a  _ dragon _ ! He had no idea those were even real. When Owain wove stories of ogres he called it all made up fun, and he would have called a dragon made up just the same. The beast swoops down. That’s when Brady can see that there are riders atop it.

One of them is stoic, wearing a mask over his eyes. The other sits in front of him, and he reaches out a friendly hand to wave at Brady. “Fancy meeting someone all the way out here. Are you quite alright?” He asks.

Brady looks at his hand. He’s afraid of him, initially. He doesn’t know these men. But… Well, Owain would have seen the good in them. At least this guy has a friendly smile. “No,” Brady admits. “I’m lost. Can you help a guy out?”

“It would be my pleasure. I’m Inigo. This is my… escort. Gerome.” Brady catches the faintest movement. Inigo snorts out a laugh. Ah, he realizes. Gerome must have tickled him. It’s almost sweet if it didn’t remind Brady that he’s missing his own “escort.” Inigo clears his throat after he collects himself, and he pushes his fingers through his hair to straighten it. The dragon settles more comfortably on the ground. “So then, how did you go about getting lost out here?” Inigo asks.

"Witch," Brady mutters. He supposes that deserves more of an explanation than that, but it’s hard to find the words at first. He manages, after a few more seconds. He recounts the story of, well, his life. His mother, being kidnapped, being rescued, falling in love… well, he doesn’t exactly say he’s in love. He just mentions that he and Owain were very close. It's probably more than they needed to hear. Gerome listens with a flat mouth and passive face. Inigo listens with his mouth agape and his eyes shining with bewilderment.

“Can’t be,” Gerome eventually grumbles. “We just came from a town spreading rumors of that witch attack. There’s no way you got this far from town on foot that fast.”

“He just said the witch transported him!” Inigo scoffs. “Scoot back—Make room for Brady. We need to get him back to that town right away!” He nudges Gerome. Gerome grunts.

“I don’t even know the name of the town,” Brady admits in a whisper. Inigo reaches out his hand to help him up onto the dragon anyway.

“We’ll take you where we heard wind of it. Maybe that will get you close.”

The back of a dragon makes a great time. It would have taken Brady weeks to walk that far, but Minerva flies there in just hours. On the way Brady finds out that Inigo dances for coins. He lives on the wings of that dragon with Gerome. They haven't got a home or a family, but they have each other.

He’s hopeful when they land that they’ll find Owain. Gerome and Inigo leave him, they’ve done their part. He looks around the town. It doesn’t look familiar at all… at first. Then it looks familiar in all the wrong ways. He’s not in the village where he lost Owain. He’s  _ home _ .

…

When he met his mother again, Maribelle recognized him right away. She cried and threw her arms around his neck and hung from his shoulders while she hugged him. He told her everything. She kissed his head and wouldn’t let him out of her sight.

That was days before. Now Brady is seated in the woods near the market. He still has no idea which way is up. His head has been spinning like a compass since the day Owain fell. He wants to know that he’s okay, he really does but… well, he has no way of knowing. He has no way of ever knowing.

Brady shifts the bow of the violin, and as he plays birds chirp to mimic the song. Brady likes to play for them. They’re sweet, they aren’t doing any harm.

He wonders if everything is truly over. He closes his eyes and daydreams about rainy nights in Owain’s bedroll while he plays. He wonders if Maribelle will ever let him wander far from home. He wonders if Miriel will ever come to find him, again. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to forget the wandering hero that won his heart.

A twig snaps, and when it does it snaps Brady out of his thoughts. His note turns into a sharp mistake. Someone, or something, is approaching… and so he gets to his feet and holds his violin like a club. He'll break it, one day. He's sure of that, but he won’t go down without a fight. He’s been through enough for one life. 

Through the greenery of the forest, he expects to see a monster. Maybe a thug. Maybe a bear. The last man in the world he expects to see is  _ Owain _ . There he is, though. Dirty and without his normal supplies, the only thing Owain appears to have with him is his sword. The violin hits the ground with a thud. “Owain?” Brady asks in a voice heavy with disbelief. He stumbles a few steps forward. Owain doesn’t look at him, but a smile stretches over his lips. He nods his head.

“I knew it was you!” Owain says it like he’s bragging. He reaches out and Brady runs into his arms easily. He pulls Owain's face to meet his and their lips come crashing together in Brady's first-ever kiss. Owain seems startled… but his enthusiasm shines through a moment later. He kisses Brady back hungrily until Brady is breathless and Owain is flushed red. It's… right about then that Brady realizes Owain's eyes aren't in focus.  

“What…. Happened to ya?” He pants out the question. He doesn’t step out of Owain’s hold. In fact, he just gently trails his fingertips over Owain’s cheek and neck. Eventually Owain sits down on the forest floor. Brady takes a seat as well. He folds his legs under himself and tries not to pull the grass out of the ground while he talks. “I was scared you were dead,” He adds.

“When I woke you were gone,” Owain says. “So was the light of the world! I hit my head when I fell. It took a few days for my sight to fade completely, but… now I can’t see anything at all. Everything is darkness.”

Owain slumps into Brady while he talks. At first it seems like he just wants to lean against him… but eventually, he shifts until he’s just laying down in his lap. Brady doesn’t mind. He trails his fingers through Owain’s hair while he talks.

“When I realized what happened I decided to return here, and to find Lady Maribelle. I had to tell her to send another hero out after you, one who might still be able to complete the quest…” He reaches up and wraps his hand around Brady’s. It does a fine job of making butterflies gather in the pit of his stomach. “I wanted nothing more than to keep safe the man I love.” 

Owain stops talking. Brady isn’t sure why, until he sees a drop of water plop down onto Owain’s cheek. Then another, and another, until he realizes they’re tears. Brady’s own, ugly tears. “Sir Brady,” Owain whispers. Brady’s voice cracks.

“S-Sorry, I just… This is my fault.” He makes to rub his eyes with his arm, but before he can Owain reaches up, literally blindly, and takes his face in his hands. He pulls gently. His eyes slip closed. Brady closes his eyes too and lets Owain kiss him again. Maybe it can make him forget that he ruined Owain's life? “I love ya so much, and I ruined everything…” 

It does nothing to help him forget. What happens instead is a work of  _ magic _ . The same cool, gentle magic that heals wounds trails out of Brady’s hands and along Owain’s neck and face. He shivers, of course, but as he opens his eyes Brady can see his pupils begin to dilate. Owain blinks several times. He squints… Then he gasps.

“Owain,” Brady starts to ask. He doesn’t get to finish the question.

“I can see!” Owain gasps. He trails his hand along the length of Brady’s face. “I can see you.” He repeats, softer. Brady sobs. Owain peppers his face in a hundred tiny kisses. “You healed me,” He whispers again, but his voice sounds so  _ happy _ .

Brady can’t imagine how this happened. Healtouch has never had the power to heal the blind before. Or has it, all along? Maybe because Owain’s blindness was caused by a wound… but that still makes no sense. He’s not wounded now. He supposes it doesn’t matter. If his gift never heals anyone else for the rest of his life, that it healed Owain is all that matters to Brady right now.

Owain eventually swipes at Brady’s tears with his own thumbs. “I would ask a favor,” Owain whispers. Brady doesn’t know that he’s capable, but he nods his head. Yes. He’ll do anything.

“Yeah? What?” He asks.

Owain grins. “Will you be my happily ever after?” Brady smiles with Owain’s question. He should have expected him to say something so absurd. It’s just the right amount of crazy to make Brady nod his head, enthusiastically. 

  
And so they did, against several odds, live  _ happily ever after _ .


End file.
